I remember the day you left.
You went out of town. When you came back, everything was perfect, and we were happy.
I didn’t see it coming.
One second I was driving fast with the window down, sun in my eyes, wind in my hair. Suddenly, it was as if someone were screaming my name through the wreckage trying to pull me out before the flames burned me to nothingness.
You said you loved me, and that you always would, but I called your bluff.
If you had loved me, you would have never left me like that. Alone, with myself.
You took a pair of my sunglasses to mask your watery eyes, and walked out the door.
What happened? Where did you go?
For the first time in my life I couldn’t feel you there anymore.
Sleep did not visit for weeks. The voices got worse after you left. How could you leave like that? You knew what they were telling me, what they were doing to me.
I was reduced to skin and bones by the first week without you. So thin and fragile struggling to hold myself up in public. I’d choke back the tears at work. Smile a little. Feel anything besides the ache you left in my veins. You broke my heart so abruptly. You left the light on. I waited by the door at night. You never came home.
That was all a long time ago. I rarely think of you now, but looking back on it, I’m glad you’re gone. I am a woman now, and a little boy is the last thing I need.